The Other Side of the Truth
by T3h Toby-Chan
Summary: An age-old ritual and a young man's curiosity. Doesn't sound all that apocalyptic, does it? A rather disturbing take on what "The truth of the World" really is. (AU) One-shot, "Thinker" fic.


**A/N**: This one, I did a while back. I had to rewrite the ending, as some readers I'd showed it to were a tad confused on the whole outcome. I redid the ending, so it's a bit more literal. But if you still have confusion as to what it was, please ask. Although, first, I would love to hear your theories about what it really is about. So please, leave a thoughtful review. I'm interested!

(Really, this dosen't suck too badly. Reaaaally!)

**The Other Side of the Truth**

It was a summer evening, however unreliable a witness the temperature could be within the stone walled location. The temperature always had a tendency to bite ever so slightly of an impending winter chill, even on the most agreeable of weather conditions. That could most likely be attributed to the damp valley environment of the establishment, or for the tendency of the antiquated stone walls to retain a cold edge and block out the sun's reach, or, some speculated that it was the symbolic foreboding nature of the dwelling, thickening the air with a constant apprehensiveness, in spite of the relative security.

The figure leaning out one of the massive windows contemplated the thought, over the unwinding view of the pink sunset in his view, and whatever the cause, he supposed it was best that the ceremonial robes were as heavy as they were. Even being cumbersome and utterly unflattering, they were the best and only defense against the brutal winters, which in spite of the well meaning attempts of the group in charge of maintenance, still seeped through the heavy curtains and antiquated fire heating systems. For some reason they always insisted on keeping things perfectly unchanged since they had been in the beginning, which was unfortunate for the begrudging younger students, who could only roll their eyes and murmur that bronze candelaberas were so unfashionable.

"Adred," a voice called from the hallway behind the boy who'd been lazily gazing at a dusty old text balanced on the open windowsill. He cringed a bit hearing his name called. As much as he could stand torch-lit hallways and dust mite bitten libraries, he'd never quite liked the medieval sound of his own name. His mother loved it; insisted it was a good name, solid and strong as he, but it seemed such a name was given more out of adherance to tradition than true appreciation for strength or beauty, much the same as so many things he grew up around.

His colleague stood before him, and guestured for him to get moving. He clapped the cover of the old book shut, and pulled his greyed woolen hood over her head, taking a breath, and followed. He hastily brushed his dark plaited hair over his shoulder, while his schoolmate shook her head, clearly expressing her disdain for his messiness, and wondering why he didn't just get a haircut already, but such things were never spoken. Among two learners who had reached the level that they had, a little tolerance was earned at some point along the line, and the idea that perhaps the young man was devoutly emanating a traditional style wasn't out of the question.

It was a simple responsiblity, consisting of keeping watch, which only required one's attentive presence, however it was always treated with the stuffy air of importance that came with every ceremony, and a little extra uneasy reverence.

Although he had been introduced to 'That place' over a year before, he still felt a worrisome shudder whenever it came his turn to encounter it. His own teacher had reccomended him for high responsibility, having exceeded in his studies, but even with his advanced placement in the technical attributes, he still feared the heavy air of importance; the lingering fright that came with being close to the so-called "Truth".

He was left to his watch, and he slunk into the ornate wooden chair positioned against the wall in the circular shaped room, flipping his text open once again, tucking the torn notebook entries he kept while on watch between the pages. Years ago, he had taken so much avid interest in learning all the history he could, and now that he was made to study all of the more intricate, and therefore completely boring, details of the founding and of "The incident", it would often take his strongest of will, or strongest of boredom to motivate further study.

"_The incident_"... it made sense, really, to refer to it so vaguely. The terrors of the true nature of "The incident" that had founded this place had been disclosed to him long ago, and he hadn't quite gotten over the shock of it. He supposed at one time, the effects were so closely devastating to the keepers of the hidden truths, that the most painless way to call it was in such a discreet manner, but nowadays, very few people even blinked an eye at the prospect, and merely kept the reference out of a sense of duty.

His eyes darted from the aged calligraphy on the parchment in front of him, back to the pedestal in the center of the room. It wasn't necessarily forbidden to make use of his knowledge while he was on gaurd, however he still felt a twinge of guilt, the remorse of a spying child, when he did.

Still, kindhearted curiosity was a stronger pull than obligation to study, and he found himself, like many times before, shedding his apprehension, and excitedly eyed the gilded surface. He retrieved a piece of chalk and marked a few runes around the simple box that stood in the center. Lines connected, and a dull glow emitted. The small spark stretched into a thin sheet, and spread outward, misty images slowly melting into shifting shapes. A dark forboding figure lingered before him, casting a jarring cold wind through the room, and against his being, before it settled into the clear sillouhuette of a black door.

"Show me," He muttered, in the secret tongue, and drew his fingers back from the array, watching the projection unfold before him in tendrils of black, and transforming, the mottled colors shifting into brightness, and reflecting on his face as they finally settled into a perfect picture.

Red was the first wash of light that enveloped the image. It was the coat of a boy maybe two years his junior, with golden hair and a temper shorter than his height. Adred smiled. He liked this boy; had seen him many times before. His smile dissipated when he saw the expression on the boy's face. He was hunched over on an armchair, palm over his forehead, his face angered and distressed. He'd seen that sort of pain before.

Grey was the second hue to join the mix, a warm and soft near-blue. Armor. It was the younger brother. Adred liked this one even more. He always had a calming essence about him, even having experienced the horrors he had in his young life, which Adred had only been able to catch on the brim of from what he'd seen of the brothers.

_The shorter one began to yell. He fumed, and spit and swore, silently due to the late reception of noise, but that was probably for the better. _There was a fizzing, and the sounds began to slowly meld, weakly coming through. _The boy's yelling was still indescript, but the hulking metal figure beside him remained quiet, stagnant, and took it all with a remarkable composition, not piping in one unnessecary word until he knew his brother was finished. That was signaled by the elder brother's final curse, slamming his fist into the cushioned arm, and slouching defeatedly into a mournful curl, his hand over his eyes. It was clear he was trying his best not to cry. The younger brother dutifully took his turn in speaking, gently, knowingly, his echoing voice now audible. _

_"...Another way," _was the first thing that could be heard when all the static cleared_, "It's not all that bad, Brother," _Adred's smile returned upon the utterance of the endearing term always mewled by the younger one_, "Really it isn't. We've gotten through everything so far, and we can keep going. We'll make it. We always do." _

_The blond's face softened, and he gazed upwards, almost tragically amused. He was mortally frustrated, but somehow, that voice was always a balm, a magical cure-all that told him just what he needed to know; that kept him from making a complete jackass of himself; that kept him alive._

_"Nothing ever brings you down, does it, Al?" He dropped off his smirk, and the younger brother was instantly aware that this had to do with more than what his brother had previously ranted about. There was a deeper more affected reaction deep within the dark hollows of his gaze that couldn't quite be brought out._

_"Brother?" the younger boy piped, "Is there something else wrong?"_

_The blond alchemist looked up and shook his head, dismissing the matter,_

_"No, nothing really. I was just... upset. It's only the assignment that has me stressed, nothing more." He pushed himself off the seat, and brushed his hair back slowly, thoughfully, exhaling. The armored boy knew better._

_"That's fine, brother. But, if you ever have to tell me something, I'll listen." The alchemist paused in his tracks, lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirk, and shook his head,_

_"You're crazy, Alphonse," he chuckled, tapping the armor affectionately with his fist. He moved to exit the room, and stopped again to turn,_

_"Hey, Al," He asked, furrowing his brow gently, "Do you ever get the feeling that someone's..."_

_"What?"_

_"Nevermind," He shook his head, "Just something stupid." He left the room. _

Adred put his hands together and set his fingers once again on the circle, and the images were swallowed up to their center in the wooden box. He grinned. There would be lot's more to write about in his journal now. As he turned, he was startled by a presence in the doorway. His teacher, kind eyed and amused, smiling at him.

"S- Sorry," He immediately offered, backing away from the pedestal.

"No. Nothing to apoligize about. It's a necessary task for protectors. I'm just surprised to see you taking on such a responsibilty. Especially when you have so many more interesting things to do. Like studying..." He guestured towards the abandoned textbook on the chair, which made his student stare at the floor sheepishly. The instructor simply waved it off, and picked up the book himself, tucking it under his arm, and joined his student at the gilded pedestal.

"So, any problems?" He asked, conversationally.

"No. None at all," The student lied. He gazed at the box again, and fiddled with the sleeve of his robe, "Nothing outside of the normal."

"That's all for the best, then." His teacher replied, flipping the book open and reading a sheet of notepaper,

"Who are Edward and Alphonse?" A cold chill ran through Adred; the shock of guilt.

"Huh?" was all the boy could think to respond by, "What do you mea-, they're nobody."

His teacher grew an admonishing look, and placed his hand on his student's shoulder,

"You know you're not supposed to get attatched like that. This is a very serious task, for our protection, and for theirs. You musn't forget what it really all is. Your responsibilty is to mainain the truth, and keep it safe. So will it be for all the other protectors."

"I know." He sighed. It was hard to admit in his guilty mind that he hadn't done his job. Those two boys had gotten close to The Truth. Dangerously close. Yet, he could never bring himself to say anything. His sudden sense of loyalty to these perfect strangers had inexplicably grown more important to him than his duties, which really now, just seemed all pointless ceremony. He felt a gut sense of blame everytime they were hurting, and couldn't tell why, but never dared to ask.

"Um, sir?" He asked, trying to sound unobjective, "What... what do you think would happen... you know, if one of them actually discovered The Truth?"

His master's face softened, his worry lines shifting into an empathetic expression,

"Then may God have mercy on his poor soul. I can't think to imagine they pain he would endure with that knowledge."

"I guess that's true..." He looked at the stone floor again.

"Now come on. It's Matthew's shift to take watch, and you, my boy, need to get some rest." The teacher guestured for his pupil to follow, and the boy gave one more wistful look at the box before he painfully asked,

"So, it's true." He spoke, gazing at the altar-like display, at the tiny worthless box which contained the most important, most treasured, and most tragic item their world would ever have known,

"It's sad. They really do all think... that they're still alive..."

The elder man nodded, and led him out of the protected room. The room that contained the ultimate sacrifice, the hallowed Philosopher's Stone.

Adred hung his head with some guilt and wondered if it was the right thing to let them find the 'truth'.

'After all... how would they feel? Knowing that the thing they search for... is themselves?'

The philosopher's stone. The stone red as blood. The divine elixir. The product of thousands of human lives.

Human lives are only good so long as they believe they are still living.

**End**


End file.
